


Two is company

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Silmarillion Prompts [41]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, Implied threeway, M/M, Multi, Prelude to hatesex, The Finwion Cousin Problem, arguing as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 19:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7814563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turgon does not appreciate the guest Finrod has brought with him to Vinyamar; the guest does not appreciate that Turgon exists, period.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two is company

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cygnete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cygnete/gifts).



> 0\. ...I can't believe this took me two months to cross-post from Tumblr.   
> 1\. Someday I will write the graphic sequel; for now have some Fëanorion/Nolofinwion antagonism plus bored Arafinwion, in the finest of family traditions.

Turgon and Curufin were snarling at each other. They had been snarling at each other for an hour now, which, going by historical data, meant they could potentially keep going for another three to five.

Suppressing a sigh, Finrod strolled over to the nearest wall to inspect the décor. The current state of interior design at Vinyamar was rather sparse and martial, and Finrod spent some time in grey contemplation of what had driven Turgon’s tastes thus – the torments of the ice, the loss of Elenwë, the stresses of single fatherhood, the weight of leadership, the loss of his brother, the burden of –

“Curufin,” spat Turgon. “Forgive me for thinking this entire _continent_ would be better without you and your kind.”

“Oh good,” said Finrod under his breath, his back to his bickering cousins. “Reasonable escalation.”

Curufin was sneering. “I appreciate you believing us so influential. A whole continent, oh indeed, I thank you for the acknowledgement. But somehow I suspect it is specifically _whom_ you think I am influencing that causes such a twist in your smallclothes.”

Turgon slammed his fist on the table and Curufin made the non-movement of a forced refusal to twitch at the noise. “Of course it damn well is! Do you think I’m happy about you lurking around my best friend, my cousin, insinuating yourself into his plans and his – ”

“And his presence?” Curufin was smirking again. “Disappointed that I am here as well as him? Disappointed not to have him to yourself?”

Turgon drew closer to Curufin, making the height difference between them – nearly identical to the measure drawn between their fathers – very pronounced. Curufin craned his head back, managing to look haughty rather than overshadowed. “Yes,” said Turgon. “I was disappointed. Disappointed that he can not see the weasel he is clutching to his breast for the vermin it is.”

At the word ‘weasel’ Curufin did twitch, looking annoyed. He recovered himself quickly. “Better than clutching an ill-clad carthorse with no fashion sense,” he said, his eyes lingering disdainfully on Turgon’s clothes. “Tell me, did a blind farrier tailor that for you?”

Turgon drew in a breath to launch into another scathing riposte, and there came a faint _ting_! from behind them. They both looked around.

Quite nonchalantly, Finrod had removed a massive broadsword from its wall mount and was sitting perched on a chair arm, trimming his nails with the blade. As they stared, another fingernail ricocheted across the room and hit a ceramic urn with a delicate _ping_.

Finrod registered the weight of their stares and looked up with exaggerated surprise. “Oh, don’t let me interrupt you! I know how frustrating that can be.”

“What?” said Turgon, his eyes still on the massive sword that Finrod was balancing with such ease.

“I hate when my own foreplay is cut short,” said Finrod conversationally. “It so throws off my rhythm.”

“What are you on about, Felagund?” asked Curufin coldly, but his eyes were narrowed, like he suspected he knew where Finrod was going.

“This _is_ the prelude to grappling each other out of your clothes, is it not?” Finrod let his eyes widen. “Why, the passion with which you are at each other’s throats, the heat is palpable!”

“Ingoldo,” said Turgon tightly. “You are being deliberately an idiot.”

“I agree,” said Curufin, and Finrod smiled down at his fingernails.

“Am I? Why, I know from firsthand experience how hot your blood gets during a verbal sparring match, Curvo. I know your predilection for picking a fight as excuse and precursor to thrusting someone up against a wall…”

Turgon looked even angrier, and Curufin looked torn between being smug at Turgon’s discomfort, and intense irritation at Finrod's implication. But Finrod noticed, too, the sidelong glance Curufin shot at Turgon from beneath his lashes.

“And Turno…I know you only get so heated when you care passionately about something. You do not like to overly reveal yourself, and so you do not allow yourself such displays of emotion unless you are carried away. ”

“It is you I am passionate about!” Turgon burst out, and then flushed to his collar.

“I am touched that you wish to defend me,” said Finrod softly, “but I trust you know it is unnecessary.” He spun the sword absently, and both Curufin and Turgon jumped back, even though they were well out of range. “And so I must deduce that you are at each other’s throats for the pleasure of the fight…and the pleasure of one another's proximity.”

“I would sooner bed a corpse than that over-grown simpleton,” said Curufin, folding his arms.

“Goodness,” said Finrod. “How vivid.”

“And I would sooner bed a nest of ferrets than a Fëanorion!” Turgon retorted, rounding on Curufin.

“You really are obsessed with mustelids, aren’t you?” Curufin sneered up into Turgon’s face. They were chest to chest now, their faces close, and they realized their proximity at the same moment. They jerked back as quickly as they had from the broadsword.

“You both seem fixated on unique bedmates,” said Finrod, who was trying not to laugh. “Might I suggest a simple, lightly incestuous alternative?”

“No!” They had shouted in unison, and this seemed to enrage them further. Turgon fidgeted with his cuffs like there were fleas crawling up his sleeves, and Curufin’s fingers were curling and uncurling against his palms.

“Oh, for the sake of Eru,” said Finrod, with patient amusement. “Just take off your clothes and kiss already.”

“Our passion, as you deem it,” said Curufin stiffly, “was hardly about one another, but about you, Ingoldo. And your terrible taste in the company you keep.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” said Finrod, getting to his feet. He carefully rehung the sword on the wall, and began to unfasten the clasps of his robes. “If it was about me as well, then perhaps I will be lucky enough to be included.” He strode across the room, passing right between them, brushing them both as if to emphasize their closeness.

Curufin and Turgon watched, speechless, as Finrod’s robe dropped to the ground, soon followed by his shirt, leaving only light and inadequately opaque breeches beneath them.

“He’s mad,” muttered Turgon.

“Yes,” conceded Curufin. He chanced another glance at Turgon, at his broad shoulders and large hands. His fingers twitched again, curling around an invisible temptation.

Turgon stared at his feet so as not to stare at the nearly naked form of Finrod splayed across the couch. Beside him, Curufin’s breathing was clearly audible and his hair had fallen over his shoulder, one long strand loose over his face and stirring with each of his quick breaths. The disheveled state of his usual tidiness was striking.

They turned at the same moment, and then Turgon’s hands were in Curufin’s long hair, pulling too hard for tenderness, and Curufin’s clever fingers were tugging impatiently at Turgon’s stiff robes, sending buttons scattering. Their lips met without grace, Turgon’s teeth almost immediately drawing blood from Curufin’s lower lip. Turgon growled, and Curufin gasped, and Finrod let out a deep sigh. 

“About time,” he said, but he spoke only for himself, Turgon and Curufin too preoccupied to hear him. Then he leaned back contentedly, flicked open his laces, and settled in to enjoy himself.


End file.
